cygnus alcott 🌧 two, cb1

You remember a time when you were seven and someone was suing your parents because there was some sort of labelling mishap, and you think about it a lot. You think you're mislabeled too, pretty boy, soft-looking and quiet and young. People think they know you because your smiles are free and you aren't afraid of physical touch and that's okay, because you want them to think what they're thinking. You enjoy looking like the flower and getting to keep all the venom of the serpent for when you're ready to strike.

Sleeping with the enemy, inviting him into your bed, laughing at them when their heads are turned because they think they don't need to worry about you. They think he's dedicated to the cause, and even if he wasn't, he's just Cygnus. But you're more, and your power is that you know that. Your power, in fact, is knowledge in general. Secrets. You'd be surprised what truths people are willing to tell when they count you as inconsequential.

You smile, and you squeeze a hand, and you wipe away a tear and you play the part of an angel whose halo is held aloft by the devil horns hidden in your blonde curls.